


Ryokan

by loverlyduck



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Innkeeper!Hanzo, M/M, Mutual Pining, On Hiatus, Slow Burn, Tags will be updated as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverlyduck/pseuds/loverlyduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo has been living in America for 10 years, running a small inn off the beaten path in southern California. The summers are slow, but the odd group of travelers keeps him preoccupied in work. Three travelers arrive ahead of schedule, throwing off Hanzo's routine and replacing it with a better understanding of himself.</p><p>Three Overwatch gentleman stop at Hanzo's inn, expecting to stay the night, but finding themselves unable to leave the soft serenity of the traditional Japanese ryokan.</p><p>(Rated for later chapters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did it! I contributed to the fandom!
> 
> Shall we set the scene? Please enjoy this!

Hanzo awoke with a start. The sun was already filtering in through his slightly parted curtains, its rays shining brightly across his face. His small room was filling up with the heat of the day well before the day properly began. He quickly shoves his quilts and covers away from him, basking in the brief relief it gave him and the presence of a not-really-there breeze. He sighs, long and drawn out. The days here always started like this. The oppressive California sun making sure he didn’t sleep later than 6 am. He silently wishes for the brisk, cool mountain airs of Hanamura before forcing himself out of bed.

His room is small, but the bedroom of an innkeeper is only really used for sleep—their days much too busy to entertain the idea of rest. Hanzo grabs his toiletries from the top of his wardrobe and decides that a shower can’t come soon enough. He slides his door open, the familiar action brings on the ever present homesickness that refuses to leave the tight walls of his gut. It constricts with a longing that he’s gotten used to in his days here in America. While he’s brought all of the comforts of his traditional Japanese compound, nothing can stand up to the feeling of home.

He makes his way briskly to the washroom, a communal area for guests and staff to bathe in the style of their choice: traditional Japanese or the typical Western fashion. It makes him feel a weird anger to put his roots on display for American tourist, but his business has proven fruitful and it allows him the anonymity he craves. No one thinks twice of a Japanese man opening a Japanese style inn. It’s as cultural as a German baker or a Russian stiller. He’s able to wear his _yukata_ without prying eyes or endless questions.

However, the guests of the inn have no problems making him and his business known. Many of them have chided him for not being more social, and for keeping this “gem” away from the world. He doesn’t do much advertising, and when he does it’s through paper means or word of mouth—things people don’t trust in this day and age.

“If you’re not on the internet, you’re basically dead.” One guest once told him. Hana--he remembered her name from his guest book and remembered she’d checked in alone. She was a small, Korean girl who refused to take part in any of the outdoor offerings of the inn. She stayed inside and played on her game system, and has taking to laying down instead of sitting, at the _kotatsu_. When Hanzo scoffed, she glared at him, put down her game and picked up her phone. Within minutes he had a Facebook page for his business shoved in his face. He took the phone with both hands and tried his best not to scowl at the infuriating technology. The Korean girl gave him a smug smile and said, “That’ll be twenty bucks!” He offered her a job as his website administrator on the spot. She agreed without hesitation.

He sits on one of the many stools lined in front of the low shower heads. He turns the faucet hard, the rust breaking free and allowing the warm water to rush from the shower head. He removes it from the wall to run it around his body, wetting his hair liberally. The soothing rush of water calms his nerves, the long day looming ahead of him. He thinks of his tasks for the day as he turns off the shower head and scrubs his body with soap. The lather pools at his feet while he mentally lists his duties for the day. Prepare the rice, air the futons, sweep the entrance way, patch the tatami and the screens… It’s a while before he turns the shower head back on.

He towels himself off and slips back in to his sleeping _yukata_ and takes his toiletries back to his room. The inn is empty, but today he welcomes a group of three—three men if he remembers correctly. Friends or relatives he’s not sure as they all registered under the same name and used the same payment. Americans were much friendlier with each other than he could have ever fathomed. They were completely comfortable sharing rooms together—although his rooms were more appropriate for couples and families. The room he’s chosen for them has one of the best views of the gardens and is a short walk to the _onsen_. The next guests aren’t expected for another week, so he can afford to treat the ones coming today to luxury. He appreciates the guests who come in summer. Most only wish to visit in the winter, when they can truly enjoy the hot baths and serene surroundings. Summer is a bit more oppressive. He offers portable fans to guest, but many complain about the lack of air conditioning—not realizing that electricity can sometimes be an expensive distraction from the traditional atmosphere of the inn.

Dressing in his typical day time _yukata_ , Hanzo heads to the kitchen and proceeds to busy his hands preparing the rice for breakfast. The kitchen is understaffed during the summer months, it being too slow for Hanzo to afford to pay anyone. The only ones needing to be fed at the moment are himself and Hana, so he sets aside two cups of rice and washes it diligently until the water runs clear. He then lets the rice soak in a fresh pot of water, leaving to fetch the futons.

He walks with purpose to the guest room, opening the sliding door slowly. The room is musty from neglect and Hanzo opens up the door on the opposite side that leads to the garden. Every room has a door that leads to the gardens. A long, wooden deck surrounds the courtyard, allowing guest to walk through the gardens with ease. The wooden path leads around the entire compound and is about a mile total in length. With the door open, the morning air rushes through the room in pleasant man-made wind tunnel. He allows the wind to whip his hair around his face for a moment before turning to the closet. He grabs the four futons from the closet and carries them on to the deck. Hanging them over the railing proves to be quite a task, sweat forming over his brow, his hair hot and heavy on his neck. Once his hands are free he reaches in to the sleeve of his _yukata_ and retrieves a yellow silk tie. He pulls his hair back in to a high ponytail and lets the hot sun and fresh air do their work on the futons.

Back in the kitchen, Hana is awake and rooting through the sparse fridge. Hanzo is sure to chide her before putting the rice on. “Don’t eat. Rice is cooking.” He says in simple English, accent eliminating some syllables and adding others. He can almost feel Hana rolling her eyes.

“Aw, come on.” She sighs, her English much better than hers, but her Korean accent sometimes confusing to his ears, “I want a Pop-Tart!” She holds the shiny wrapping in his face and he scowls.

“Those American treats—they will make you fat.” He says, putting the lid on the rice and turning to face her. She unwraps the confectionery treat that passes for breakfast and puts the cool pastry to her mouth, taking a large bite.

“And rice makes you boring.” She says through layers of bread and sticky filling. Hanzo grimaces and leaves her to her mistreatment of her body with a defeated sigh. He still has work to do and Hana is a persistent distraction. He enjoys the company, but sometimes he craves more than a noisy girl eating junk food. He heads to the entrance way and slips out of his slippers and in to the _geta_ he only wears outside. The broom is old and frayed, but he made it himself and can’t bear the idea of making another one. It works fine, even if it doesn’t look the best, and Hanzo has a soft spot for it. Building emotions towards inanimate objects was something that came with the loneliness of being by yourself. With no one around, it’s easy to adore something as silly as an old broom.

Sweeping the front of the inn was another piece of calm in the morning. It reminded him of the Shimada compound in Hanamura, where it was his duty as the eldest son to make sure everything was pristine and perfect for guest, which sometimes meant sweeping when the servants were too busy or after his mother passed. He leans heavily on his broom for a moment, the straw fan splaying in a thousand different directions. His mother was a kind woman with a soft smile, who always had wisdom and gentle words for him and his brother. It was his mother who he first came to when he had fears, doubts—and she had brought him in to her lap and pet his hair in to place, careful not to disturb the bun at the top that had taken her the better part of the morning to get right. She would whisper sweet things to him in the gentle light of the evening and everything would fall in to its proper place.

Now he’s older, and he’s been without his mother, without Japan, for some time. It’s hard for him to come to terms with the isolation he feels in the uncomfortable setting he finds himself in every day. Even after 10 years, he will never truly feel at home without the calming presence of his mother and the peaceful gardens of the Shimada compound. He finishes sweeping quickly, not allowing the time to get too far away from him before the guests arrive. The timer in his sleeve beeps at him that the rice is finished and he hurries to remove it from the heat.

He was the tender age of 12 when he told his mother his deepest insecurity in himself. That he did not want to marry the woman that he was betrothed to. That he wanted instead to marry his best friend, the girl’s brother. He cried so hard his mother almost didn’t understand him, and when she did she pretended she didn’t, instead holding him close. She cried with him, knowing that her son was suffering and knowing that he would continue to suffer for the rest of his life.

  
“ _You must no longer think of this, child_.” She whispered to him once he had stopped crying, “ _Bury this. Let this die. You must marry her—for the family, for both of us_.”

  
Hanzo cried anew, knowing his duty to his mother was more important than his duty to himself.

Although he moved away before any marriage could come to fruition, the memory of his mother squeezed his heart and stole the air from his lungs. He would then spend his years going against his mother's direct wishes and seeking the company of men whenever he could. He knew that when she died, she died thinking he was a good, diligent child, who listened to his mother. It pained him to know otherwise.

The guests arrived earlier than Hanzo anticipated. He was still feasting on rice when the bell at the front rang. He quickly untied his _tasuki_ and let his sleeves fall to their proper length before greeting his guests. Three men stood in the entrance way and it only took Hanzo a moment to observe them. The person he mentally dubbed the leader was flipping casually through the guest book at the front desk. He was tall, firmly built with white hair and a scar across his face that made Hanzo’s gaze shift. The other man was just as tall, but much tanner—Hanzo wasn’t one to guess ethnicity, but he must be used to this heat because he was dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt—it made Hanzo sweat just looking at him, but the man was looking at the leader, completely preoccupied with whatever he was staring at. The third man was sitting at the small lip of the entrance way struggling to take off his ridiculous boots. He tugged with a ferocity that made Hanzo fear for his ankles. They came off with a jingle and Hanzo noticed they had spurs on the end. He scoffed—he’s never met an American cowboy before, he assumed they were made up by movies.

The leader saw him heading down the hallway and nodded his head in Hanzo’s direction. Hanzo replied by stopping in front of the three and greeting them with, “Welcome to my inn,” mouth forming around the English greeting with practiced elegance, and bowing deeply. When he meets their eyes again he’s not surprised to see the two men in front are shifting awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed after receiving a bow, but the man in the back stands up and saunters up the small step from the entry way to the main hall and smiles wide.

“Well a’int that a proper greeting!” His drawl is even more ridiculous than the hat on his head and it takes Hanzo a lot to not roll his eyes. “Pardon our manners," He throws his arms around the other men, who obviously don't appreciate the contact, "The name’s McCree. This solemn fellow is Reyes, and the grandpa here is Jack.” He pats the shoulder of each one as he says their names, a smile plastered across his face. He’s obviously more excited for this venture than the other two.

Hanzo nods, attempting to commit their names to memory quickly, but lingering on _McCree_. He silently wonders if that's his first or last name. He moves along, “Please allow me to confirm your reservation.” Hanzo slips behind the raised desk and pages through the large book filled with crude English writing--his own. “What is your last name, sir?”

“Morrison.” The grey haired leader gruffs out. His voice is deep and gravely, from years of yelling or years of smoking Hanzo can’t tell, but he finds his name in his book nonetheless and writes more scribbles next to his name in smooth, Japanese script.

“I would take great pleasure in showing you to your room.” He bows again and motions for them to follow him down the hallway. He walks much faster than the rest of the group and makes it to their room just in time to remove the futons from the railings and place them back in the open closet. Morrison rounds the corner in to their room to find Hanzo standing to the left of the doorway, motioning for the party to enter.

Everyone who ever enters this room is always taken back, always left speechless. These men are no exception. Morrison and the tan man waste no time in dropping their things and heading towards the garden. The cowboy is the last to enter the room and does a half-bow-half-nod towards Hanzo. Hanzo is slightly taken aback and bows slightly in return. He’s not used to Americans showing him respectful gestures, but he keeps his composure well enough. A smile spreads across the cowboy’s face and he removes his hat. Hanzo is actually surprised to see hair underneath.

He allows them time to get settled and announces his departure to his guests. "Lunch will be served at noon. Please let me know if you are in need of anything." He states before kneeling on the small cushion outside of the door and sliding the room’s screen shut quietly. He can hear the cowboy whistle when the door closes.

“See? I told you this was going to be cool.” Hanzo hears as he moves down the hallway. Hanzo openly huffs in response. His culture isn’t _cool._ He tries to calm himself. It’s not the first time someone has accidentally insulted him, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. He decides to busy his hands farther down the hallway, set on repairing a broken screen that had been destroyed by a group of rowdy teenagers—who also thought his _ryokan_ was ‘ _right out of an anime_ ’.

Americans.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ryokan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryokan_\(inn\)) \- traditional Japanese inn  
> [Yukata](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yukata) \- casual summer kimono  
> [Geta](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geta_\(footwear\)) \- traditional Japanese footwear (sort of like clogs and flip flops mashed up)  
> [Onsen](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Onsen) \- hot spring (also commonly used as another word for the facilities around a hot spring, such as an inn)  
>  Tasuki - straps used to tie back yukata sleeves.  
> hmu on tumblr if you're so inclined @loverlyduck !


	2. Chapter 2

The screen proved more a challenge than Hanzo originally anticipated. The thin paper folded easily between his fingers, the flimsy material fighting against the humidity of the early afternoon. He could feel a new sheen of sweat form on his brow. Noises filtered down the hallway in small waves, proving a much needed distraction. Hanzo could hear pockets of conversation through the foggy mist of the compound. Hanzo tries not to listen, but his ears pick it up anyway.

“Just because you got us leave doesn’t mean we’re not soldiers.” He hears an angry voice huff. He’s unsure if it belongs to Reyes or Morrison. The only distinctive voice comes through with a tang. "We have a job to do." The voice finishes with a huff. It's not long before there's a retaliation.

“An’ just because we're soldiers doesn’t mean you we have a good time!” He hears McCree drawl out. It’s a playful argument, but one he hears many times. He can sympathize with an all-work-no-play attitude, but hopes this group doesn’t take Hana’s route and stay inside for the whole time they’re here… How long was that again? He thinks back to his guest book. It has to be longer than a week, he only memorizes 7 days at a time.

“How are we supposed to relax when it’s this hot, eh?” Another angry voice, but not a familiar one. That has to be Reyes. “I’m about to sweat my balls out of my jeans. I can't believe you picked a place with no air conditioning,  _pendejo_.” Hanzo snorts at the remark.

"Well get all sweaty an' then go take a dip in one o' them hot springs, friend!" He hears a short, curt laugh from the cowboy, "Man, haven't y'all been on vacation before?" The argument continues, but it's obviously going in circles. He hears McCree announce his exit and the door slides open shorty after. The cowboy has changed. Somewhere between Hanzo showing them the room and the redundant argument, he's completely redressed himself in a pair of faded jeans and a gaudy tank top with a distressed American flag on the front. Hanzo's almost incredulous--to think people actually dressed in American flags like all the magazines said back home. The idea that Americans are so patriotic, so loud, that they think their nation's flag is an appropriate thing to wear on their chest... He can't help but stare--those jeans must be a least two sizes too small in the hips. They squeeze too many areas too tightly. Hanzo must have been gawking too long because McCree's head whips towards him faster than he can look away. A red spray covers his face, embarrassed of his bad manners more than anything. He silently wishes the cowboy would go back in to his room and pretend he didn't notice the inn keeper's interest in his attire.

No such luck. As soon as Hanzo starts fiddling with the paper, he can hear McCree's footsteps draw ever closer. He finds his palms sweating, nervousness creeping up his throat like a weed. He's not the best conversationalist. Every guest that's ever casually talked to him has described him as 'straight forward' and 'a little rude'. Sure, his English could use some work, but in all honesty, he just hates making small talk.

So when McCree stops about two feet away and sits down on the floor, Hanzo has to give up on avoiding him and look up from his work. McCree's sitting cross legged in front of him, bare feet poking out from under his knees like a child. He has one hand on his left thigh and he's leaning on the other, propped up on his knee. He looks amused. Hanzo's immediate reaction is to scowl at the intrusion and return to his work with more determination.

McCree's eyes scan the entirety of the screen before asking, "Now, lemme ask ya--who on Earth did that?" He whistles a bit before continuing, "Probably a bunch of college kids not knowin' how to follow the rules, am I right?"

Hanzo huffs, but then nods, agreeing with McCree's prediction. He's not wrong, they were young and about college age. He can't say that they were actually in school, but they did pay with a parent's card, so he assumed it was something like a celebratory trip of some kind. They drank a lot of sake and got rowdy during the nights. One night, an older boy crashed through the screen door, red marks dotting his face. It was some sort of fist fight that another guest had to break up. Hanzo offered the other guest a free night stay, but he didn't take it. _Bring it on! I live for this!_ , he had said. Hanzo opens his mouth to tell McCree of the night of the drunken fight, but decides to not humor the cowboy with his poor English and shy nature. It takes another stressful moment, but the paper starts to do what he wants and he makes quick progress with the top part of the screen. He stands up to rotate the screen to the other side and McCree follows. Hanzo looks at him perplexed, but McCree is all smiles as he easily takes the screen from Hanzo's hands and flips it around--his height giving him the perfect angle to smoothly transition sides. Hanzo's frown deepens.

"Thank you." He says, more out of politeness than actual thanks. He doesn't need help and he certainly doesn't need some nosy American touching his screen, potentially re-breaking the delicate paper. McCree's amused smile turns in to a shit eating grin.

"Well aren't you Mr. Independent," He starts, putting his hand on his hip and wiping a thumb across his nose. "Sayin'  _thank you_  like you about to kill me. Boy howdy, I ain't never heard such a thing." A light chuckle escapes his lips. "Now I had a mind to help you do whatever it is you were doin', give you some company, but it seems like you might have a handle on things." He nods down at Hanzo and turns to leave. Hanzo breathes a sign of relief all too soon. McCree turns around and adds, "But if you're ever wantin' some help, I'm your man!" And with that he saunters down the hallway and out the front door. Hanzo's mouth draws in to a tight line. 

_"Mind your own business."_  Hanzo mumbles in his native tongue.

From the time he was small he always felt helpless. His standing, his duty, his honor, his mother--unable to change any of it, unable to control any of it. There was constantly an empty feeling, gnawing away at the back of his skull, telling him he should do more, be more, achieve more...

He finishes his work in the quiet solitude of the empty hallway. The loud and abrupt noises can no longer be heard from the occupied room down the hall. Quiet whispers sometimes drifted in to his ears, but faded as soon as they came. The peace that he's so used to fills the compound gently, like the calm waters of a mountain lake. Once the screen is back to it's original glory, he puts it back in its proper place. In that moment, everything fitted together so perfectly.

The day continues on without interference from the cowboy. Hanzo flits around from room to room, checking for bugs and vermin, before drifting off to the kitchen to prepare lunch.  _Tempura udon_  is on the menu today--a personal favorite and a delicious lunch time treat for travelers. The thick  _udon_ noodles sate the lingering hunger from breakfast and the large, lightly fried  _ebi_ sit well on a full stomach until dinner time.

The smell of frying  _ebi_ catches the attention of Hana who floats in to the room, picking at the several tempura'ed pieces that were already done. She eyes him sheepishly, crouching down low so only the top half of her face is visible over the counter, one hand tentatively reaching for a golden fried treat. Hanzo meets her eyes and nods once, giving her permission to take her share. Hana's face lights up immediately as she grabs five from the plate and marches happily to the common room next door to gobble them down. He paddles a small bowl of rice in to a bowl and puts it down in front of her. She greedily adds a healthy amount of soy sauce and Hanzo has to stifle a laugh.

"See? American breakfast did not fill you." Hanzo says matter-of-fact, raising an eyebrow. Hana pretends she didn't hear him, biting the  _ebi_ tail first.

The smell must permeate the compound because soon, his other two hungry guests drag in to the room as well. Morrison and Reyes both look exhausted. They've changed in to more comfortable attire, Morrison in a pair of gym shorts and a grey shirt and Reyes in a pair of black sweatpants and a tank top. He assumes they must have laid down for a nap, but the red marks dotting Morrison's collarbone suggest otherwise. The red specks return to the tops of Hanzo's cheeks as he turns his eyes back to the  _dashi_  broth. He tries not to picture the two of them doing anything other than sitting down at the small table in the common room, but his mind can't help but wander to the two of them engaging in a romantic encounter. It's hard to picture, but his mind weaves their bodies together and he has to distract himself by paddling out more rice in to small bowls before his face burns red permanently.

He doesn't make eye contact when he delivers the rice, but both of them grunt out their  _thank you's_  and he hurries back to the connected kitchen--heart racing. How do you regularly converse with someone who has been marked up by their lover? When he was younger, he would never allow his partners to leave any marks on him. It was too mortifying. What if a servant saw? What if his mother saw? His face flushes deeper over the steam of the broth. Just when the air around him is the thickest, he hears a familiar laugh.

“Well God damn, Morrison!” Hanzo looks up to see McCree slap Morrison on the back so hard that the man’s spine goes ridged. “I go on a bit of a walk and you get all bit up!” A few more pats and the cowboy moves to sit on the opposite side of the long table next to Hana, grinning from ear to ear. Morrison shoots him a death glare and Reyes laughs in to his bowl of rice.

“Must’a been one hell of a rattler that got you!’ McCree doesn’t let up, “How many days you reckon it’s gonna take for them nasty marks to fade, hm? Five? Ten?” A sharp noise under the table makes McCree stop and cringe. A swift kick to the leg delivered by the very man he insisted poking fun at. McCree’s face twists up as he grabs his shin and breathes in a sharp breath, “Alright, alright, Uncle…” he gasps through a tight jaw. Hanzo pretends he doesn’t laugh.

“There aren’t any snakes around here.” Hana says, looking up from her bowl of now brown rice. She scrutinizes Morrison's collarbone with a tilt of her head, “I think those are hickies.” Hana tilts her head to the other side, the eyes of their incredulous guests staring at her innocent face, “Yep, those are for sure mouth bruises.” Hanzo can’t help but let out a small laugh through his nose. Morrison's hands reach for his collarbone by reflex, feeling completely exposed by a 19 year old girl. McCree shuffles awkwardly next to her.

“Now, now pretty lady,” McCree starts, putting his elbow on the table and turning to face her, “We enjoy _subtle_ jokes in this party, and we’d appreciate it if you played along.” Hana rolls her eyes and continues to devour her lunch. “And now tell me,” McCree continues, “Where’s that accent from? You from one of them Koreas?” McCree makes an up and down motion with his finger, attempting to differentiate in his mind the two nation states.

“South Korea,” Hana states, “The party-Korea.” Hana smiles, “Most Americans assume I’m Japanese, like Hanzo. But I’m a proud Korean!” She holds her chopsticks up in the air for effect, but McCree’s already shifted his focus to the innkeeper. Hanzo braces for more conversation.

“Hanzo, huh?” McCree asks, Hanzo is forced to look up in his direction and nod. His gaze is piercing; how can anyone be that confident? “I was wonderin’ when I was gonna get your name.” Hanzo freezes. Did he never introduce himself? He suddenly in shock, turning to meet McCree with wide eyes. Sensing his discomfort, McCree back tracks, “Not that I’m takin’ any offense to not being properly introduced. You got too much else to worry about. Don’t mind the ramblin’s of an old cowboy.” He waves his hand in front of his face and smiles. The redness creeps back on to Hanzo’s skin. He curses himself for making a hot meal, the heat from the stove permeating through his warm cheeks.

Small talk continues as Hanzo rides out his embarrassment preparing the soup. Once served, the table quiets down to enjoy the labors of his cooking. Forks and chopsticks are passed out and Hanzo takes great pride in watching everyone enjoy his labors. He sits down to eat with them, a comfortable quiet taking over the room, easing the discomfort in his chest. Small conversations are passed back and forth between his guests, but nothing Hanzo can’t tune out. The taste of the _tempura udon_ taking him back to the kitchens in the Hanamura compound—sneaking the odd noodle out of the basket, avoiding the old cooks and the young apprentices. The taste of cold udon on a hot day—a chorus of cicadas singing loudly in the trees. He remembers dipping his feet in the _koi_ pond outside the kitchens, but only for a moment--only to feel the cool water rush up to his ankles before quickly withdrawing them, constantly afraid of being caught.

“ _You must not disturb them._ ” His mother would warn him, “ _See that one, right there…? That is your fish. He will bring you wealth and good fortune. He will bring our clan success--you will bring this house success. You will be bathing in silver, just as that one does.”_

He thinks back to that fish and how that silver _koi_ died a week later. He does not know what happened to the dead fish floating at the top of the pond, but he knows that the servants took it away before anyone saw. No one else knew that that fish failed to bring anything other than disappointment--no one but him.

Hanzo finished his meal quickly, drinking the broth from his bowl before returning to the kitchen, the memory souring his good mood. He begins to clean up, the motion of gathering the dishes in the sink calming his mind, but a presence at his side stops him.

“You’re an awfully quiet guy.” McCree starts, taking the bowl Hanzo was holding from him. “Figure you must be thinkin’ about a lot of stuff.” He steps to the sink and turns on the water, preparing a sponge and filling the bowl with suds. “Now me, I’m not a quiet guy, but you must’a figured that out by now.” He smiles and rinses the bowl, water sloshing up his exposed arms, “So I’m comin’ to the assumption that you don’t talk a whole lot because you don’t got the right kinda company.” He puts the bowl in the drying rack and shuts off the water. “Well, I’m here to offer you that company. And I figure that while I’m here I might as well help ya out, not just with stimulatin' conversation, but also things like this.” He takes another dish from the sink and begins the washing anew. "And I also assume that you're not the type to ask for help, seeing as you don't talk much, so I'm gonna force it on you." McCree's side-eyes him and throws Hanzo a cocky grin.

Hanzo stares agape, hands empty, watching the American do his dishes for him, attempting to say something, but coming up short. A part of him feels relieved, for what he’s not sure. But another side of him flares up with anger, and it’s an old anger that’s hard to beat down. A frown stamps itself on to his face. He opens his mouth to speak, but the right words don’t come to his mouth. Conflicting emotions rage within in him—does he say ‘thank you’ or 'no thank you'? It’s hard to differentiate the two when someone else is doing dishes for the first time in 10 years.

His mind settles on a vicious sounding, “Thank you.” Before picking up a towel and drying the wet dishes. McCree smiles, bravado pushing through Hanzo’s dark temper.

“No problem, darlin’.” He oozes, obviously proud of himself. Hanzo somehow frowns deeper than before.

“I am not your _darlin_ ’.” He bites back, clattering the dried dishes together in the cabinet. McCree barks out a laugh, gaining the attention of the other guests.

“Oh boy, fellas!" He laughs through his words, "I think I found that rattlesnake that bit ya earlier! This one’s got quiet a big set o' fangs!” His obnoxious laughter fills the room and it takes years of patience to stop himself from hitting the cowboy hard on the shoulder.

They finally finish the dishes in what feels like forever. McCree carried on a one sided conversation about some western movie the entire time and Hanzo’s mind feels numb from the stress of listening. How can someone prattle on about the details of some gun for the better part of an hour? Hanzo’s vocabulary expanded about 3 or 4 words, but he doesn’t feel any smarter. The group retires back to their rooms and Hanzo leans against the kitchen counter, utterly exhausted. Socializing is a lot harder than he remembered. Hana pops up next to him a moment later, adding to his weariness.

“Wow boss, I’ve never seen you talk to a guest for that long.” She joins Hanzo against the counter, both thumbs typing furiously on her phone, not making eye contact. “This McCree person doesn’t seem to want to leave you alone. But don’t worry, he’s not a weirdo. I looked him up. Just a normal dude. He’s in the army? Military? I don’t know, some government thing. It sounds cool. They were saying they’re on some kind of month leave. Can you believe that? A month? I wish I got a month off…” her words fade away as she catches the eye of the tired innkeeper.

“Don’t even think about asking.” He states before running both hands down his face. “I need you here. You entertain guests well. I would die without you.” His accent becomes more dramatic as the tiredness fills his being. Hana smiles.

“I dunno, I don’t think I can entertain the talky one. That’s all you, boss.” She pushes off the counter and puts both hands behind his back, “Let me know if you wanna take a look at his Facebook later. He’s got some nice pics on there.” She wiggles her eyebrows and Hanzo looks away with a ‘ _tch._ ’ How did he hire such a straight forward girl?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pendejo - spanish for idiot or dumbass.  
> [McCree's tank top](http://www.theflagshirt.com/v/vspfiles/photos/FR120TT-MensRetroFlag%20Tank%20Top-1.jpg%22)  
> [Tempura udon](http://theresident.wpms.greatbritishlife.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2015/04/prawn-tempura-udon.jpg)  
> Ebi - shrimp or prawns  
> [Dashi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dashi) \- a simple broth made from fish stock  
> [Koi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Koi) \- an ornamental fish, bred to produce decorative colors.


End file.
